Chapter 2

"Because I could not stop for death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves and immortality."

-Emily Dickinson

Another month passed slowly, even by a persevering immortal's standard. Loki began to lose count of the amount of documents he signed, and the laws and codes and curfews he approved of and enforced.

Fall had settled into place with swift cruelty. It ripped the leaves from the trees, scarcely giving them an opportunity to bloom with fireworks of color. Its rattling touch brushed the flanks of buildings and stripped the gleam of sunlight from them. It hunted summer breezes and extinguished them mercilessly, replaced with hollow winds that bypassed clothing and struck at the lungs.

Loki was unbothered by the progressing cold, and this bothered him. Occasionally, he stood before the lavish mirror of his suite and let his face fall away. He gripped the porcelain edges of the sink so tightly that it crumbled to powder in his hands as blue skin spread like a disease across his body, as tribal sigils raised and carved themselves across his flesh. Red pigment overtook the cutting green. Claws deformed his fingertips, fangs poked out from his lips.

In the privacy of his bathroom, Loki the Aesir shrivelled, like a used wineskin, like an old hide stretched over a drum frame, and Loki the Frost Giant burst forth. The rotten core of an apple exposed.

He could not stand to look at himself this way for long; after moments of critical examination, he swept away the cobalt tone and the markings. The blanket of pale skin overtook him once again, familiar, safe, expected. He smoothed back his hair and gripped the base of his neck, trying to fool himself into believing that a lush warmth radiated from his skin instead of an icy chill.

The President was nervous. Even without magic, it was obvious in the small twitches by his jaw, the moist sheen of sweat that dabbed the brow, the ramrod posture of his spine. He sat primly on the edge of the cushioned seat that Loki had graciously offered him, hands folded loosely in his lap in a play at serenity. Loki smirked and leaned back, stretching his arms over the back of his settee. He felt very much like a lion surveying a frightened gazelle.

"The United Nations will not just stand by, Loki," the President warned. The use of his name instead of his title as Emperor had obviously been deliberate.

Loki canted his head, squinting slightly. When the sun slanted through the stained windows just so, warming half of the President's face, a steely glint could be observed in the man's eyes. True courage is the conquering of fear, not the absence of it, Loki had read in an Earth tome. He disagreed, but it was amusing all the same.

"We do not negotiate with terrorists," the man continued after Loki had not responded. "If you do not give up yourself and the people you have enslaved, we will take immediate action. This is your final warning."

Loki tipped his head back, laughing darkly. This type of power play was intoxicating to him, as heady as any surplus amount of alcohol.

"My final warning?" he quoted, delighted. He rolled his head forward again in a graceful, carefree movement. "Oh, my apologies. I did not know you were getting tired of the assassination attempts. I quite liked the poisoning one, though I mourn the skein that you tampered with. It was rather high-quality, for a Midgardian wine."

The twitch in the President's jaw jumped briefly, tightening under the sweating flesh.

"But by all means, tell me how you plan to kill me if I don't comply this time. I am in the mood for entertainment."

"Why would I disclose that information?" the President inquired, genuinely puzzled. "Our goal is to remove you from your usurped position–clearly, to tell you how exactly we plan to do so would be a foolish move."

"A foolish move befitting a bandy of fools, to be sure. I suppose I'll find out soon. Also, very clever of you. Hiding behind a bluff. I know as well as you that you lack any real way to kill me. You don't know how. I'm an alien species. For all you know, I need simply to snap my fingers and you'll combust into a pile of ash."

"But you can't, or you won't. No, we both know that you savor this." said the President, steering the conversation into more personal, less rehearsed grounds. He motioned to the generous space between them.

"Oh, do I?" Loki mocked, smiling. He repeated the same gesture. "What is this, then?"

The man met his eyes. "The subjugation. I don't think you crave power. I think you just crave the feeling of stepping over others to get it. It makes you feel formidable, it makes you feel invincible."

"Is that process not a power all on its own?" Loki pointed out, growing restless. Something in the man's words had pricked him, though he allowed nothing to show on his coldly composed face. He leaned forward, clasping his hands. The ring of bodyguards that surrounded the President rippled taut with tension, their hands brushing over their weapons.

Loki smiled kindly at them and convulsed his hands in a sudden, sharp movement.

The guards were blasted back by a sharp, blinding wave of energy that passed harmlessly through the furniture and the shocked President. They crashed inelegantly against the far wall and bounced against the plush rug. Loki snapped his fingers, grinning now. The carpet reared like a snake, rolling tightly around the dazed forms, melding smoothly like liquid into ropes and gags. They immediately began to struggle, silent aside for the occasional grunt. Loki took a moment to appreciate their depth of training; he was afraid that any more excess noise would induce a headache in his temples.

The President had leapt to his feet, his own hands expertly wielding a pistol that was pointed at Loki's chest. "Release them," he ordered, finally losing his mask of composure. The sweat increased, rolling down the planes of his face in a small bead.

"Put the gun away, my dear man," Loki dismissed as he stood from his seat and sauntered past him. He pushed the muzzle away with the back of his hand and stopped long enough to direct him a blinding smile that writhed with danger! danger! The President hesitated for a few long seconds before sinking, defeated, into his armchair, the gun numbly lowering to point at the floor. Loki patted the side of his face with as much condescension as possible, feeling the hardness of the man's jaw under his palm.

"Much better. If you'll excuse me a moment." He stretched out his arm and opened his fingertips. The scepter responded, flying solidly into his palm from its position leaned against the door. It hummed with power as he scaled the series of broad, staggered steps to the bar, where the entrapped bodyguards fought. A simple touch of its glowing point to the temples of the men stunned them. They shuddered, one by one, and fell limp and complacent. A ghostly blue glow burned behind their sunglasses.

Loki snapped his fingers, allowing the carpet to fall away and become inanimate once more. The men stood as one unit, relaxed and unbothered by Loki's presence. He smirked and trailed a long-fingered hand along the backs of their shoulders as he sailed around them, turning back to the sitting area. The President faced him with balled fists, snarling openly now.

"Were these men your best unit?" Loki enquired, with the ease of one asking about the weather. He spread his arms. "For your sake, I hope not. They have a message for you, though."

The lead man stepped forward, smiling, brushing shoulders with Loki. "Sorry, Mr. President," he said apologetically. "We regret to inform you of a switch in allegiance."

"Agent 11!" the President barked with authority, like a man commanding the attention of a dog, in a desperate bid to lift the spell. When that didn't work, he said, more softly, "Matthews. Come on, son. Snap out of it."

"What's your name, son?" Loki mocked the President's accent, tilting his head. A marvelous rush had come over him that made him giddy with excitement. He kicked his heels as he walked, swaying.

"Dan Matthews, sir," the agent offered immediately, compromising himself without a single beat of hesitation. Loki watched out of the corner of his eye as the President averted his face, shaking his head.

"Ah. Well, Matthews, I believe our dear Barton would like some assistance with his task of patrolling the boundaries of the city. Would you like to volunteer your aid?"

"Of course, sir, anything," the man agreed earnestly. If he had a tail it would have been wagging.

"Good boy," Loki praised, and with a single thought, sent all of the assembled bodyguards sinking to their knees, prostrate before him. He focused his attention back on the President, smiling gently.

"Is this what you meant? Because I can understand why you would think so. There is a certain palatable rush in this." He sank his fingers into the hair of the nearest man, wrenching his neck back and exposing his jugular. The scepter hovered over the vein like a bee over a flower.

"I could command him to lean forward on the blade," Loki purred silkily, the dead smirk slipping away. "And he would do so, gladly." He released his grip on the man's head and pointed to the windows. "I could tell him to get up and run straight through that window, fall the forty stories to the ground, and he would, without a single millisecond of hesitation."

He gestured widely with his hands and raised his voice. "Do you understand what I'm driving at, now? You cannot win, in any way. Say you fired that chambered round at my chest. One of these men would intercept the bullet, and then you would be responsible for the death of one of your own. Any food you attempt to lace with poison in the future will be tasted and consumed by one of these men first, any meeting will be overseen by them, any messages will be passed through their hands. Can you strike them down to get to me? Perhaps–though I do not think you will rest easy afterwards. And even then, what a public outcry that would arouse! The Resistance, such a heartless and bloodthirsty lot that kills its own without any hesitation."

"At least give them their dignity!" the President spat, jerking his chin towards where they bowed like pets begging for scraps. A livid blush of helpless rage spread unnappealingly across his cheeks. "This is supposed to be a neutral meeting! Not a sick display of gross ego!"

"But...you don't negotiate with terrorists," Loki gloated delicately, and turned on his heel, finished and sated with satisfaction. "Gentlemen, please escort your esteemed–former–leader to his transport."

The men straightened and took hold of the President's neck and arms, forcing him out of the room.

"You can't do this!" The man screamed, thrashing. "You–you piece of filth, you monster!"

Loki slammed the double-doors behind him with more force than exactly necessary. The rush that had rampaged through his being only seconds before had faded now, shrivelling in his chest like a dying ember. The intoxicating feeling blazed with manic intensity, so much so that when it departed Loki felt strangely empty and burned out. It was as though a ragged, bleeding hole had emerged in his chest, one that could only be filled by the exhilaration of triumph. He frowned and firmly turned his thoughts elsewhere, marginally unsettled and unwilling to dwell on the matter.

A knock on the door very early the next morning woke Loki from his light slumber.

"Enter," he responded, his voice husky with sleep. He sat up and tossed the comforters away from himself, scraping his hand through disheveled hair. A brief twitch of fingers magically unlocked the door. The knob turned, allowing admittance.

Clint Barton leaned against the doorjamb, saluting. When Loki nodded, he dropped his hand and took a few more steps into the room.

"I would not disturb you if it wasn't important," he demurred as he respectfully lowered his eyes. Loki shrugged into an emerald green robe, tying it loosely around his waist.

"I have nothing but confidence in your judgement," he answered, laying a hand on Barton's shoulder. It was, surprisingly, true. In the year that had ensued Loki's takeover, Barton had been an indispensable tool from the start, a priceless right hand. "What is it?"

Barton unzipped his jacket and withdrew a manilla folder. Loki took it from him and flipped through its contents as Barton began to explain. The folder enclosed several high-def pictures that had been taken and printed out on glossy photo paper.

"A meeting of some kind is taking place in the intersection of 4th and 5th," Barton debriefed. "I counted eighty-three people before I left the scene to report."

Loki quirked a brow in interest. "At this hour? A rally, you think?" Eighty-three was a higher number than any of the nomadic refugee camps had ever amounted to. Curious, but not alarmed in the slightest, he flipped another snapshot over and went still.

The final photograph was a zoomed-in shot, mainly taken up by a face Loki had not glimpsed since the first time he had seen it. Pale skin, glasses, wild ink-black hair. The man's posture was as though someone had called to him from a position somewhere to his right. His chin was turned, his remarkable eyes relaxed and open. It was a far cry from the stony, ruminating expression that Loki had last seen him with.

Barton shifted minutely, betraying his confusion. "No," he said uneasily. "There were no signs, no evidence of a riot in progress." He reached out and flipped back a few photographs, tapping with his forefinger. "All those who were in attendance were among the impoverished caste, those who had little access to the food trucks, those who were sickly, or burdened with children."

Loki was wordless. A feeling of confusion had overtaken him completely; for the first time in a long while, he was uncertain as how to proceed.

"Sir?" Barton inquired. "Shall I send a riot team?"

"No," Loki answered softly, pondering. He closed the folder and handed it back to Barton. "Catalogue the incident. I will investigate the matter personally."

"Sir! You could be putting yourself in danger!" Barton protested, stepping in front of him. Loki's mouth tightened in irritation.

"I am more than capable of settling the matter myself," he reminded coldly. "If you have forgotten, may I care to remind you that I–"

–he stopped suddenly, the reprimand dying on his lips. What was the point of arguing? It wasn't as if Barton actually held a genuine worry for Loki's safety. He looked at the blankly-blue irises with something akin to distaste. The sniper's features were perfectly arranged into an affectation of anxiety–mouth tight, the skin around his brow creased–but his eyes betrayed him–they were scornfully empty.

Dropping the pretend necessity for words, he communicated to Barton through the mental link, ordering him to return to his barracks for the rest of the night. The concerned expression smoothed itself from Barton's face like an eraser sweeping over a chalkboard. Blandly, puppet-like, the agent turned and exited the room. Loki swiped a hand over his face to banish any remaining traces of sleep before teleporting with a soft pop.

He emerged just outside the mouth of the large intersection, an illusion already firmly in place. This time, he resembled a child, ten or eleven years or so, with scruffy blonde hair and round blue eyes. His clothes seemed worn and ripped, a smear of dirt on his cheekbone.

None of those gathered noticed his sudden appearance; smirking internally, he slipped seamlessly into the crowd.

The scene had transformed dramatically from the photographs Barton had given.

Long, portable picnic tables dotted the circle, clustered by seven folding seats each. Around half of them were occupied, while the other portion of the crowd had formed themselves into a long, curving line. Loki shuffled next to a worn-looking mother of two, inconspicuously trying to see past the mass, but he could not glimpse anything except hunched shoulders from his position.

At least the line moved quickly enough. Loki barely stood in place for more than a minute at a time. He did not raise conversation with the people on either side of him–more had trickled into the line after Loki–and there was a strangely somber attitude hanging over their heads. It could almost be deemed silent except for the occasional coughing fit or shuffling of clothes and feet. Eventually, he neared the beginning of the line and saw what all the fuss was about.

A long, rectangular table was heavily laden with food; gleaming pots, covered pans, glassware and crockpots and bowls, chopping boards bursting with neatly diced vegetables, containers of sauce or dip, trays of sliced deli meats. Delectable smells wafted in curling wisps of steam from the table, too many at once; peppery, salty, creamy, sour, ranch, sweet, savory. It should have created a disgusting odor all together, but it didn't–somehow, it all combined to form the most tasteful food aroma that Loki had ever smelled.

And behind the table, helping to man it all, stood the musician.

He wore the same clothes as last time, with the exception of a stained and flour-splattered apron knotted loosely around his waist. He had a ladle in one hand and a serving fork in the other. With each newcomer to the table, he wordlessly served them with generous portions of whatever dish they pointed at.

Baffled, Loki let the line sweep him forward until it was his turn to be served. He stood before the table silently, wondering; would the man oust him as Loki (as he had clearly demonstrated the last time that he could see through illusions)? Would he get angry? Would he refuse to serve him? Perhaps poison any selection Loki made?

Strangely anticipatory, Loki kept his arms pinned to his sides, his fingers closed.

The young man examined him, a funny little smile curling his mouth. "Hello there, lad," he whispered. Loki analyzed his voice more critically this time; still hoarse, yes, but musically accented, the type that Midgardians from the country of Britain had. The man planted his hands on the table, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, utterly carefree, and at Loki's continued silence, asked, "Well? What would you like?"

Loki's perplexity grew. Why had the man not reacted unfavorably? A playful gleam frolicked in the distinctive green irises, in the crook of his easy smile–clearly he knew it was Loki who stood before him, not some silly little street urchin. The expression was more genuine this time than when Loki had seen it that day on the balcony. It made the man look years younger, as though still a teenager instead of just entering the cusp of adulthood.

"Whatever you'd suggest," came the masked voice of Loki's illusion, the pitch of a little boy. His curiosity was growing by the second.

The man beamed as though Christmas had come early; with skilled, practiced movements, he ladled large spoonfuls of some type of creamy soup into a deep bowl, then layered two thick slices of a porous and cheese-studded bread on its sloping rim. On a smaller plate, he arranged a helping of a crisply-tossed salad dappled with an orange dressing. Finally, he cut out a sizeable portion of triple-layered lasagna stuffed with ricotta cheese, cuts of meat, and a savory red sauce.

Balancing all the full dishes on one arm, he carefully cleared away a little space on the serving table and set them down beside him. He drew up another seat and patted it. All of this was performed in a matter of seconds. He moved economically, with skilled, elegant movements.

"Come sit next to me," he ordered, and Loki obeyed, coaxed by the smells and his nonthreatening demeanor. He stooped under the table and pushed the oversized tablecloth off of his face as he emerged on the other side, blinking.

Already, the man was serving another person, his smile still easy and his eyes unbelievably gentle. It was difficult to reconcile this congenial personality with the moody, distant stranger composing alone on a balcony. Loki ate slowly, his eyes fixed on the man's slim figure the whole time.

The food was bursting with flavor, and still tender and warm, as though just pulled out of the oven or off the stovetop. It didn't grow cold, even as the minutes wore on and the biting chill in the air refused to lessen. Curls of steam were released by every stir, and every forkful of the lasagna retained just enough heat to almost burn the tongue each time. The warmth was welcome–it seemed to drop straight down into Loki's stomach, where it settled and bloomed, like a flower.

Peculiarly, almost out of nowhere, half-forgotten childhood memories began to flit through Loki's mind. The taste of the cooking of the finest Asgardian chefs, candle-lit feasts, tales being told around a dusky fire in the library…

Loki permitted himself a moment's weakness. He briefly closed his eyes and carefully savored every memory. Good memories, now bittersweet in light of Odin's betrayal and Loki's own actions. He indulged himself for a second further as a spoonful of the soup cooled on his tongue, and then he breathed out deeply, opened his eyes, and grimly set his mouth. He shoved the remembrances down with ruthless efficiency and let the coldness in his core spread to the rest of him.

At last, he had cleaned his plate and was chewing on the last strip of crust, able to focus his attentions fully upon the mysterious stranger and those he helped. The musician served everyone equally, even if the recipient was standoffish or eyed him with more than a good dose of suspicion. One particularly grizzled man swirled his grubby index finger into the soup and sucked it warily, as though testing for poison. The musician's smile never dimmed, although Loki did see his shoulders drop slightly.

Something else ensnared Loki's attentions as well–the food never diminished. Though the stranger ripped many chunks of bread off, and scraped generous helpings onto waiting plates, his serving spoon never scraped the bottom of the pot.

Loki thought about that. Then he thought about the man's little disappearing trick months earlier. Then he smiled.

It was not really a nice smile.

The musician grabbed a spare stool and leaped onto it, balancing with the easy grace of a cat. Loki, having heard the scrape of wooden legs across pavement, turned around attentively and dissolved his focus from the silent, grim people surrounding him.

"I don't mean to be rude," the stranger announced formally, "but I'm afraid it's time for me to pack up and go. I would suggest that you do the same–" his eyes slid over to Loki "–before our dear, ah, Emperor makes an appearance."

An angry murmur ruffled through the crowd; Loki saw the same old man from before turn his head and spit condescendingly at the sound of his address.

"I do have leftovers, so if anyone would like to take some for the road, please line up again." He paused, and then scratched the back of his neck, smiling lopsidedly. "Any questions?"

A young, gaunt woman raised her hand tentatively. Her eyes darted fearfully from side to side, as though expecting Loki's enforcers to come bursting into the circle. "Is this a one-time thing?" She whispered falteringly. Her voice cracked a few times, hoarse and thin. When she finished, she lowered her head as though shocked by her audacity and self-consciously tugged her scarf across her mouth.

Heads that had turned to listen to her words now whipped back to the musician. Expressions of hunger, despair, hope, and shattered pride lurked in the set of their jaws, in the prominent veins in their clenched, filthy hands. New Yorkers were a proud people, Loki had discovered early on. You had to really grind the heel of your boot into their back to get them to grovel, and even then, they glared at you with all the bold wrath of the nine hells. Having to rely on a stranger to feed them must have been an unfavorable experience.

The stranger seemed to lose his voice, then. He swiveled his head slowly, as though taking in the crowd for the first time. Pale morning light glanced off the edge of a building and caught him in its thin ray, washing already pale skin of any color. Hints of that marble-like posture gleamed along a rigid jawline.

"No," he said at last. "This is not a one time thing."

Another hand. "How will we know when you'll be here? Will it always be at this location? What if Loki finds out?"

"Trust me," the man said. "You'll know when." And now, now there was definitely a sort of jaunty, cheeky smirk in his voice. "And you let me worry about Loki."

Indeed, Loki thought indignantly, his pride bruised.

A little boy detached his arms from around his mother's neck and stuck his hand in the air, waving crazily, as though in a classroom setting. The innocence felt out of place, a dove flocking among hawks. "But how are we gonna pay you?" he hollered. His mother shushed him and drew him back to her chest, stroking a hand along his back.

"No payment," the man said firmly. "I don't want any money, any service at all, really."

"Oh, so you're just doing this out of the goodness of your heart, huh?" a caustic voice drawled from the back. "Where'd you get all of this food, anyway?" Chairs squeaked as the gathered vagrants twisted in their seats to look at the brazen speaker, surprised by her rudeness. She was young, in her twenties maybe, with long, knotted blond hair and fierce gray eyes. Or, well, eye. The other was milky, the iris a foggy blue. An angry scar wound down her temple, bisecting her brow and eye.

The man remained calm. "If you do not want to eat, do not come," was all he said in reply. He widened his attention, addressing the entire crowd. "Again, if you need leftovers, don't hesitate to take some." He hopped off the stool and went back behind the table.

They took some.

"Thank you, my boy," whispered an old woman, her back bent with age. Her hair was a wispy silver, her fingers gnarled. Deep lines carved her face, as though every memory had been contoured into her skin. She took the man's hands and folded hers overtop them; her palms shook unsteadily.

The musician was standing very still, Loki noticed, and there was a far-away look in his eyes, a tender sort of slope to his shoulders. And yet at the same time, his pupils were mere dots, pointed and fixed so intently on the woman's face that he seemed to be reading her soul.

"You are very welcome," he answered quietly. He laced his fingers with hers, unminding of their coldness, their leathery feel. He held her wrists as one would hold fine china, reverent and awed and respectful all at once. Loki drifted closer, inspecting. The magician's eyes, he noticed now, were flitting across the woman's ugly face, left to right, left to right, reading the wrinkles as though utterly consumed by some epic novel.

The woman smiled, revealing swollen gums missing teeth. There were tears in her rheumy eyes; she reached up and patted his cheek. "The darker the night, the brighter the next light," she rasped, and then took her boxed leftovers from the crook of his arm and tottered away.

The man's arms dropped slowly, his fingers still played, as though her palms still rested in his.

"Did you enjoy the meal?" The musician finally inquired, when the last drifter had departed. Without looking at Loki, he began to break down the tables and chairs.

"It was satisfactory," Loki admitted. He waited for the man to face him; when he instead continued to clean up, he impatiently tossed his hands. The portable furniture clattered into movement, folding themselves and slotting together in a perfect heap. Annoyed, the man straightened and turned. Loki smirked at evoking that small bit of emotion from him. A victory was a victory, no matter how small.

"I'm glad. Though every mouthful you took was a mouthful that could have actually gone to use somewhere productive."

Loki feinted hurt. "What scalding words! What have I done to earn such ire?"

"It's not what you do, Loki," the man said wearily. He slumped with a great sigh onto his stool, the only seat left undisturbed by Loki's magic. "It's what you don't do that bothers me."

Jutting his chin in surprise, Loki began to pace slowly, circling the sitting figure. The magical laces of his illusion unwove themselves, and his normal visage appeared once more. "Oh," he quipped. "And what is that? In what area am I slacking? Do tell."

The man spread his arms. "You don't care. Tell me, what is the point of enslaving a race that disgusts you? Why–why go through all this trouble–"

"–It really wasn't that much trouble–" Loki muttered–

"–just to sit back and watch everything fall apart?"

Loki grinned, clapped his gloved hands together. "Maybe I just like the anarchy," he offered nastily. "Maybe I just like watching their desperation. Maybe their suffering is utterly meaningless to me."

The man simply looked at him. "If that was true, then you wouldn't employ the food trucks."

Loki shrugged, fiddling with the buttons on his coat. "All right, I'll admit things could be better. But then they would be boring."

"As if you're not bored already?" the musician delivered a shocked, barking laugh. "Look at you! Sneaking into–into soup kitchens, just to amuse yourself! You're bored!" He raised his arms again, then clapped them heavily against his sides. "Did you get tired of staring into your mirror? Did you get tired of seeing your reflection, and knowing that you were the only one, the only one holed up cozy and snug in your little castle with free will? What's that like, I wonder?"

Loki's jaunty smirk had crystallized, turned brittle. Flashes struck at him; blue skin, red eyes, horror and self-disgust. "Oh, keep speaking so carelessly and I do believe you'll find out," he purred softly.

The man shook his head and ran two hands through his hair, a parent frustrated with a child's obtuseness. "Your scepter doesn't scare me," he said dully.

Loki dipped his head, mockingly considerate. "Fair enough, I suppose." A dagger slipped into his palm; he raised it and picked at his teeth nonchalantly, ensuring that it caught the waxing light. "Though there are… other methods of instituting fear."

This extracted a huffy chuckle from the dark-haired musician. A black humor danced in his irises, as though laughing at some private joke. "I'm afraid that death has long since lost its novelty to me," he relayed, passing a hand across his mouth. He then added (not bothering to conceal his smile), "I am rather ticklish, though, if you're looking for weaknesses to exploit."

Caught off-guard, Loki paused his movements. He canted his head. "What are you?" he asked forcefully, fingers twitching with the urge to grab the frustrating man by the collar and shake him like a dog.

"There was once a man who lived in a golden land," the musician said instead. He removed a leather cord from around his neck as he spoke and crossed over to the pile of chairs and tables. A velvety pouch dangled between two knots in the cord. An expression of disdain distorted Loki's face as he watched.

"I don't want a fairytale, you stupid boy–"

The man bent over and loosened the lip of the bag. "He was very smart and clever, though such traits were not really valued by his neighbors, who were good, if not a little short-sighted, folk. So he earned the affections of those around him by acting as someone he was not. 'He was not really brave,' the villagers scoffed, so he went to the butcher in the dead of night and paid him in secret for the carcass of a wolf that had been stealing livestock. The next day, he strutted over the kill and told great stories about how he had slain it himself. And the people sung him praises."

"Is there a point to this?" Loki demanded, eyes sparking.

The musician began to ease the corners of the chairs and tables into the tiny mouth of the bag; impossibly, the pouch's brim widened to accomadate. Entire tables and chairs slipped inside with minimal difficulty. Loki fell silent, observing the magic rapturously.

"But there was also a knight in the village, brave and well-loved, a very great man himself. And he suspected deception, but he kept his silence, because once, the liar and he had been good friends, and of course, while kind-hearted, he was not the brightest. And the next month, the novelty of the beast's carcass wore off, and the villager's began to grumble once more. Desperate, the liar went to the seer of the land, and asked what he must do to earn the villagers' eternal love. The seer told him, 'You must find the Monster of the Wood and slay it. Return with its head and the village will crown you."

"Infatuated with the concept of such adoration, the liar knew in his heart that he must carry that severed head into the village at any cost. But he also knew that he lacked the strength to slay the Monster himself."

Loki, finally accepting the man's sudden affinity for storytelling, took a seat on the vacated stool.

"But he was seized by greed, and so he went to the knight of the village and wove an elaborate lie. 'I need your help,' he begged. 'The Monster has made off with my prized cattle.' The knight was reluctant, as his recently-married lover had just been taken with child. 'Why not slay it yourself, with your mighty strength and skill?' he asked. But the liar begged and cajoled and pleaded, and eventually, the knight agreed to help."

The man fell silent then, tying the laces of the pouch that had just consumed twenty tables and countless chairs.

Loki's brow twitched; he had reluctantly devoted his attention to the man's words. "And…?" he pressed, and then he laughed. "Some great storycrafter you are, leaving its end in shadow," he mocked.

The man looked into his eyes and readjusted his glasses. "Well, there's not much after that point," he said modestly.

Loki scoffed. "Oh, don't tell me: let me guess– the liar tricks the knight into venturing into the woods. The knight encounters the Monster and slays it. And then, even though he finds out that he had been fooled and there was no absconded cattle, he gives its bloodied head to his old friend." Loki clapped his fingertips together in a silent applause. "And then the liar realizes that he almost cost his friend his life, and they return to the village together and he confesses, and everyone is forgiven of their transgressions. And they all lived happily ever-after. The End."

He planted one fist on his waist and the other under his chin, eyes half-lidded with vicious merriment. "How close was I?"

"Very," the magician agreed, "except–well, not at all, really."

"Oh?" Loki questioned. He bowed. "Serves me right, I suppose. You are the storyteller after all. By all means, inform me of my errors."

"If you insist," the man said serenely. He set his hands on his hips. "Where was I?"

"The knight pledged his help," Loki prompted graciously.

"Ah, yes. So the knight goes into the woods, where he encounters the Monster. And he realizes his old friend's treachery. And then the Monster kills him. Realizing that the death of the foolish knight is assigned to his shoulders, the liar experiences a sudden anguish; he returns to the village empty-handed. The seer, having foreseen the tragic events, justly lays a curse upon him. The liar is doomed to wander restlessly for the rest of his life, to always seek approval and never find it, to build homes that collapse into ruin at the first puff of wind. And the seer, grieved by his own erroneous counsel and the pointless death of the knight, strips himself of his powers thereafter and lives in seclusion for the rest of his days. And the village forever mourned their knight."

He smiled funnily. "The End."

He spun on his heel and vanished.

AN: tfw you open this story in google docs and it has to load it...one...page...at a time... -_- But at least it gives me time to get up and brew myself a cup of tea.

Uh... this wasn't supposed to be this long. But enjoy, I suppose. And reviews are always a pleasure.

Seriously, many thanks to those who dropped a review for last chapter. Many of you left some really amazing comments for me; the reason you are reading this chapter so quickly can be directly attributed to the encouragement they give me.

Until next time!